


Blood on the Snow

by silverfoxstole



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Erik and Christine are on good terms, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Raoul knows Erik exists, Romance, This AU is different to my Garish Light AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:13:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29040687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverfoxstole/pseuds/silverfoxstole
Summary: A timely rescue leads Christine to re-evaluate her feelings towards her mysterious teacher.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	Blood on the Snow

This wasn't exactly what he'd imagined for the evening, Erik thought with the one spark of dwindling consciousness in his battered head.

It had been snowing when he emerged from his cellars, craving air and a respite from the concerto that had been plaguing his hours, waking and sleeping, for days. Rarely did he feel the need to come above unless there was some specific commodity he could not rely upon Madame Giry to procure; when he did it was usually to the roof of the opera house that he headed, there assured of solitude and privacy. Evidently his association with the outside world via the Girys, and now Christine, was making him careless, eroding the careful control he had always kept upon impulse and desire. He should have retreated immediately below, not decided upon the spur of the moment to take an evening constitutional.

It had been a bad decision, and one for which he now berated himself, lying there in the gutter as the steadily falling snowflakes began to cover his cloak. His head threatened to explode, pain throbbing behind his right eye and travelling across his left cheek into his teeth and jaw; he tried to push himself up on his elbows and almost vomited from the wave of nausea that crashed over him. One of the nearby church clocks chimed the hour, the sonorous tolls of a bell that had a crack in it, its slight defect in pitch somehow obvious to him despite his currently addled brain. He had to move, and now; he'd been lying here too long and had no desire to freeze to death.

Scrabbling with bruised fingers, the knuckles torn and bleeding, Erik managed to heave himself up into a sitting position. His head reeled and this time his stomach forcibly divested itself of its contents. Panting, his breath like steam in the frigid air, he fought down his gorge as it threatened to rise again and made it to his hands and knees, resting there for what seemed like hours as the world span wildly around him. A further herculean effort got him to his feet, leaning against the side of a building like a drunk; he bit back a cry of pain as his ankle buckled, refusing to take his weight. The shame he'd felt before he'd passed out earlier returned tenfold; he hadn't been beaten like this in years, wouldn't have been had he had his wits about him!

 _You are getting old..._ a little voice whispered somewhere within and he snarled, dragging his sodden cloak closer around his shoulders. His hat was lying by his feet, battered and wet; he thumped it back into some semblance of shape and jammed it onto his head. The snow was coming thicker and heavier now; if he didn't get to shelter soon he would be caught in a blizzard. It was fortunate that even in his impulsive moment he had not strayed too far from the Opera; thanks to the weather the streets were empty with no one to have witnessed his humiliation. Gritting his teeth against the pounding in his head and the fire in his leg, he pushed himself upright with a trembling hand and limped off slowly into the darkness.

* * *

The snow looked lovely, Christine thought as she stared down at the white street from her window. Unfortunately, it provided her with a problem.

Normally the beautiful sparkling carpet would have been trodden into grey slush by now, trampled beneath the busy feet of the citizens of Paris and cleared from the roads by street sweepers and young lads eager to earn the odd copper from coach drivers, banked up in the gutters to turn into thick, impacted ice that took days to properly melt. Today being Sunday, however, it seemed that the populace had decided to leave their new gleaming white pavements for a little longer, and there was barely a footprint to be seen spoiling the pristine expanse before her front door.

She sighed, turning away and sinking down onto her little sofa. Her thoughts travelled, as they so often did these days, to her enigmatic teacher. Did Erik have any idea it had snowed overnight? He so rarely went above ground it was possible he might be completely unaware of the spectacle currently surrounding him; she felt a pang of sadness at the thought that he would miss its fleeting beauty, hidden away five cellars below the Opera. The night before she had made up her mind to return to the theatre and collect the bag she'd inadvertently left in Erik's house two days before, the bag that contained the score she was supposed to be reading and practising but now, however, such a trip was out of the question; it was much too far to walk on the icy ground and she doubted at present any cabs would be about. Christine found herself strangely disappointed that she could not tell him of the snow; perhaps, just this once, she might have persuaded him to come out in daylight to see it. She had come to care about him over the months since he had first offered to train her voice and she missed him when they were apart not liking to think of him down there all alone.

"Christine!"

Deep in thought, she jumped at the sound of her own name, staring stupidly about the apartment as though someone had appeared from the walls. Shaking her head, she told herself not to be such a timid fool, before starting with renewed surprise as it came again, followed by the sharp rattle of stones against the window. Hurriedly she threw up the sash, wincing both at the blast of cold air and the handful of gravel that barely missed her as her assailant tried again.

"What on earth do you think you're doing - " she began, righteous indignation rising until she saw exactly who it was assaulting Madame la Farge's glass. "Raoul!"

The Vicomte de Chagny, for it was indeed he, waved at her from the seat of a contrivance that Christine could only imagine was the aristocratic version of a sleigh. The ones she with which she was familiar from her childhood in Sweden were small, utilitarian, often pulled by donkeys or hardy ponies and used in the winters to transport goods as well as people; this sleigh was a far cry from such basic transport, built from shining wood and upholstered in rich red leather, drawn by a perfectly matched pair of thoroughbred grey horses, their harness decked out with silver bells. She could almost imagine Hans Christian Anderson's Snow Queen riding in such a vehicle and realised what the strange tinkling sound she'd been able to hear earlier was. Raoul himself was wrapped up against the chill in a thick overcoat and fur hat, scarf wound all the way up to his chin; he jumped out, grinning up at her.

"What do you think?" he called, gesturing to the sleigh.

Christine shrugged helplessly. "It's very... impressive. Where did you get it? It looks like something from a fairytale!"

"My aunt sent it from Vienna last winter; we never had cause to use it then but today it's absolutely perfect! Would you like to join me for a ride?"

"Does your brother know you're asking me? He won't be pleased if we're seen gallivanting about together," she pointed out, remembering Philippe's reaction the last time Raoul had asked her to accompany him somewhere: the Comte had almost turned purple, the hypocrite. In his opinion it was just not the done thing to be seen in public with chorus girls, despite the fact that he and Justine Sorelli, prima ballerina at the Opera Populaire, had been in an acknowledged liaison for years.

"What he doesn't know can't hurt him. Anyway, it's up to me who I ask out for a drive," Raoul said with a pout, kicking at the snow-covered kerbstone. He glanced back up at her. "Are you coming? The river is frozen; we could go skating!"

Christine laughed. "Oh, Raoul. I don't know how!"

"You're a dancer; it can't be that different," he insisted, and added in a wheedling tone, "Oh, come on, Christine, you can't be so cruel as to make me go alone..."

"What about your coachman? He'll be company."

Raoul glanced at the big man driving the sleigh. He was solidly-built, burly and broad-shouldered; Christine wondered whether he'd once been a boxer. "Thomas has no conversation. Oh, _do_ come, Christine - !"

"All right, all right!" She threw up her hands in defeat. An idea had suddenly come to her. "Give me a few minutes to find some warm clothes."

He winked. "No need; I have plenty of rugs and furs..."

"Behave yourself, monsieur," Christine told him, and heard him chuckle as she closed the window.

It took nearly ten minutes to locate a pair of fur-lined boots and some mittens she had knitted badly in an attempt to occupy herself once during rehearsals. There was still a winter cloak of her father's in the wardrobe, one of several things of his she had never quite managed to convince herself to part with, and she threw this around her shoulders, grabbing her hat from the stand and wishing for a moment that bonnets were still fashionable as one would have kept her ears warm on a day like today.

Raoul was leaning on the sleigh when she emerged, and stepped back gallantly to hand her inside, settling a rug over her knees. "Where would my lady like to go?" he asked. "The Bois? Or perhaps along the Seine?"

"The Opera, please," she replied, and he groaned.

"The Opera? Christine, you spend virtually your every waking moment in the Opera! Why would you want to go there today, on your day off?"

"I left my bag there on Friday; I need to fetch it, Erik insisted I work on Elissa's big aria."

He bridled at the mention of her tutor's name. "You left it with _him_ didn't you? Christine - "

"It won't take me long to get it. I know exactly where it is, and I have a key to the house so I needn't disturb him," Christine said, but he just frowned.

"I'm not sure it's entirely proper of you to have the key to a man's home, even if he is your maestro," he told her. "Where does he live, anyway? You've never said."

"He has an apartment off the Rue Scribe." It was mostly true, she reasoned. "Honestly, Raoul, it won't take more than a moment or two. Then we can go wherever you like."

For a long moment she thought he might not agree, but eventually he nodded. "Oh, very well. You know I can't refuse you anything."

At his words Christine's smile froze and it had nothing to do with the temperature. He sounded just like Erik. " _My dear, you know I can refuse you nothing._ " So far she had managed to keep the two men in her life apart; they were aware of each other's existence but neither was exactly keen on the fact. Erik was disapproving of the time she spent with Raoul, no matter how often she explained that they were childhood friends, and Raoul was downright suspicious where her teacher was concerned. If they ever did meet she had no idea how she was going to handle it; the results would probably be explosive.

The streets were still quiet as they sped by, the horses apparently sure-footed in the snow. She idly wondered whether they had come from Austria, too. There were children out and about; some throwing snowballs with delighted shrieks while others had found a patch of ice perfect for sliding, launching themselves down the wide pavement, whooping and squealing as they went. One ended up in the path of a man carrying a tray of bread and earned himself a voluble scolding which seemed to do little to dampen his enthusiasm for the game.

As they drew closer to the Opera there were a few more people to be seen: couples taking a careful walk in the Place and tradesmen bustling about, a few dedicated souls braving the treacherous ground to attend a church service. The sleigh drew up at the side entrance to the building; Christine was grateful that the broad sweep of the carriage ramp hid the gate that led down to the cellars.

"I won't be long," she promised Raoul, who still looked somewhat disgruntled, and jumped out, catching herself on the side of the vehicle when her foot skidded out from beneath her. He leapt up to help but she waved him away. "I'm fine. Stay there; there's no point both of us ending up with twisted ankles." It was meant as a joke but he was not to be convinced.

"Perhaps I should come with you," he suggested. Startled, she shook her head.

"There's really no need. Erik's house is just down here; I'll be back in no time."

"You are being very secretive, Christine. I'm sure your teacher wouldn't mind me accompanying you just this once," Raoul said. "In fact, I would be interested to meet this man who has such an effect upon you."

"No!" The word emerged as a shout and he blinked in surprise. Christine forced a smile onto her face. "He wouldn't like it," she continued in a more reasonable tone. "He... is very solitary, not fond of visitors. Maybe I could introduce you some other time, when I have persuaded him to agree to more company."

His eyes narrowed. "He sounds like a very odd fellow. Did you say your father recommended him?"

"In a... manner of speaking." It wasn't precisely true, but she certainly wasn't going to explain how she had initially believed Erik to be Papa's promised Angel of Music when he spoke to her through her dressing room mirror, claiming he could help train her voice. It hadn't been long before he disabused her of the notion but Raoul would never understand. Instead she patted his gloved fingers where they rested on the edge of the sleigh. "It's very cold and I had better go and fetch my bag or we will both freeze. Bundle up under some of those rugs and I will be as quick as I can."

He looked down at their hands, and soon there was a mischievous smile on his lips. "Christine, wherever did you get those mittens?"

"These?" She looked too, at the stripes of different coloured wool, most of them far from straight, the odd hole where she had dropped a stitch and the ends not very well woven-in. "I made them. Why?"

"Oh, Lotte." Raoul shook his head, amused. "Remind me to buy you a proper pair."

* * *

Cold, biting down deep into his bones...

After a while he had started to become numb, which at least lessened some of the pain. If he rested long enough, eventually he might regain enough strength to drag himself down to his home; after so many hours away the fire would have long burned out but at least it would be warmer than this.

Drawing his cloak closer around his quaking shoulders, Erik shuffled further into the protection of the tunnel, curling in on himself to try and conserve as much of what remained of his body heat as possible. Thankfully it was dry here; the snow was blowing against the gate but it couldn't reach him. He clenched his jaw, hard, both against the constant throb in his head and in an effort to stop his teeth from chattering. Wearily he rested his forehead on his drawn-up knees, knowing he shouldn't sleep but feeling its desperate pull. If only he had stayed indoors, safe underground!

With an effort he tried to sit up once more, but the pain in his head sent sparks exploding across his vision and he sank back down. Perhaps in a few more minutes he would be able to rise, to get to safety, but he was so very, very tired... somewhere deep inside he knew it was hopeless, that he was far too weak to move. There was little chance of anyone finding him before the morning, even if they did come; on a Sunday Christine would have no reason to visit him, would not even imagine that her teacher would have allowed himself to end up in this pitiful state.

With his last coherent thought Erik cursed the fates that had conspired to leave him alone in the world. Solitude was finally going to be the death of him.

* * *

There was no one else about on the Rue Scribe, for which Christine was grateful.

It seemed in fact that no one had been here for a while, as the snow had all but covered any previous tracks. There were a few indentations, shallow now as the flakes had filled them; she followed them in the direction of the gate in the wall and found herself frowning. These footprints were uneven, as though their owner had been limping; there was even a somewhat deeper mark where the person seemed to have stumbled, falling to their knees perhaps, before getting up again. Raising her head she could just see that the shadowy remains of the prints led all the way to the cellar entrance.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Stumbling herself she broke into a run, boots skidding on the slippery surface; her arms flailed to correct her balance and Madame Giry's voice popped into her mind, scolding her for poor form and a lack of concentration. The bars of the gate broke the fall that threatened and she clutched at them for dear life; the metal was cold enough to have frozen to her skin and though Raoul might find them funny she was grateful for the protection of her raggedy creations. Christine peered into the tunnel that led deeper into the building but could make out nothing in the gloom. She looked down to see that snow had blown underneath the gate, brilliant against the blackness, and it drew her attention to something else, something that had her swallowing hard, her heart jumping once more.

There was a dark patch just inside the bars that did not look like water. Bending down, able now to see clearly its reddish colour in contrast to the snow, she realised with a thrill of horror it must be blood; it had pooled there, as though whoever it belonged to had paused for some moments, and had frozen solid over the subsequent hours. She stepped closer, and in that instance thought she saw movement, somewhere in the shadows beyond; she found her key in her pocket, very glad it had not been in the bag she left behind, and swiftly unlocked the gate, checking behind her to make sure she was not being observed. Thankfully the street was still empty, Raoul and the sleigh well hidden beyond the ramp, and she was able to slip through.

It was so dark that she could barely discern anything, the weak winter sunlight venturing no more than a couple of feet inside. Softly she called, "Erik? Erik, are you there?"

There was no answer, but her ears just caught the sound of fabric rustling, and what may have been a moan, quickly bitten down. She peered into the darkness, and as her eyes gradually began to adjust she was able to make out a huddled shape on the ground six feet away, little more than the outline of a blanket, perhaps, wrapped tightly around the person sitting there. Finding the lantern that was always kept in a niche in the wall she lit it and cautiously approached; it would not be completely unheard of for some tramp to find the cellars and take refuge, but as the gate had been securely locked it was unlikely. Still she was careful, walking slowly and keeping the lamp partially shuttered so as not to startle them, whoever they were. As she advanced she could see that the blanket was in fact a cloak, its owner using the heavy fabric to swaddle himself against the cold; his head was bowed, face almost completely hidden by the wide brim of his hat. Allowing more light to emerge from the lantern, she couldn't suppress a gasp at the sight of him; for one horrible moment she thought he might have frozen to death, but as she crouched down at his side he shifted slightly, the moan she had heard before escaping from his lips.

"Erik," she said, and his head lifted just a fraction, enough for her to glimpse the white of his mask. Instinctively he shied away but there was nowhere to go, his back already to the wall. "Erik, it's all right; it's me, Christine."

It took a terribly long time, but at length her name was exhaled on a ragged breath. She reached out to touch his shoulder; the thick wool of his winter cloak was damp, and he was shivering dreadfully. He was obviously hurt in some way, the blood was evidence of that, but it was almost impossible to see any injuries, even with the aid of the lamp.

"What happened?" she asked. "How long have you been here?"

"Not..." Erik cleared his throat, but his voice was still scratchy and worryingly weak. "Not sure... is it... morning yet..?"

"Oh, dear God..." For a long moment she just stared at him, horrified. Had he been lying here, alone in the cold, all night? His head fell back against the stone behind him and she could finally see his face; there were bruises blossoming on the good side, dried blood at the corner of his mouth. Knowing that she had to act, and quickly, she slid an arm beneath the cloak and under his shoulders, taking some of his weight. Unfortunately, even with a massive effort she was unable to lift him more than halfway; he was tall, much taller than her, and heavier than he looked, especially when he was obviously too weak to help her. He groaned in pain as she gently lowered him back down to the ground, resting him against the wall. One of his hands fell limply onto the stone beside her and she took it up; it was dreadfully cold and she tried desperately to chafe it warm again, avoiding the cuts and grazes. The wonky stripes of her mittens were bright against his pale skin and on an impulse she stripped them off, tugging them instead over his long fingers; they looked ludicrous, but any warmth was better than none.

She couldn't leave him here, that much was blatantly obvious, but without assistance she couldn't get him down to his home, either. In any case, Christine was loath to let anyone else into the secret of the house by the lake. Madame Giry lived too far away; even if she could be fetched it might be too late, and Erik needed assistance immediately. There was only one option open to her: Raoul would have to meet her tutor rather sooner than she had planned.

Erik was breathing terribly slowly; she touched his cheek and his eyelids flickered. "I'm going to fetch help," she told him, hearing what she thought might be a few muttered words in reply. Pulling his cloak closer around him and tucking his hands inside she rose, making her way back to the gate and closing it behind her. She slipped and skidded through the snow until she reached the sleigh, still waiting patiently by the Opera's side entrance. Thomas the coachman was reading a newspaper while Raoul was huddled under the furs, his hat pulled down over his ears. As Christine reached him he straightened, eyebrows shooting upwards.

"Lotte, what's the matter?" he demanded, catching her by the elbows.

"...it's Erik," she told him breathlessly. "He's hurt... I need you... please!"

His expression darkened, but thankfully he nodded. "Where is he?"

She waved a hand towards the carriage ramp. "We may need Thomas, too."

Raoul gestured to the coachman to accompany them and took a firmer grip on her arm, helping her to stay upright. "What happened?" he asked. "Did he take a tumble on the ice?"

Christine remembered that he still thought of her tutor as an old man who didn't like to go out; she had never bothered to disabuse him of the notion as to reveal otherwise would only result in an argument she really didn't want to have. "I think he was attacked. It's just round here..."

"I don't understand... surely this is the theatre; there aren't any houses here," he said, obviously confused, an emotion which only increased when she moved away to open the gate. "Christine, what the devil is going on?"

She picked up the lantern. "Are you going to keep asking questions or are you going to help me?"

"Of course I'm going to help, but - "

"He's down here," she said, grabbing his hand and pulling him along behind her. "I don't know how badly injured he is and I can't lift him on my own."

Raoul became, if anything, even more perplexed when they reached Erik. The Phantom's head had slumped to one side, his hat obscuring his face once more, and he was still shivering, tremors coursing through his thin frame. Christine took hold of his hand but he did not react; she squeezed his fingers, slipping her own beneath the cloak to touch his shoulder.

"Erik? I'm back. Can you hear me?"

"I think he's unconscious, Christine," Raoul said quietly. He ran an eye over the huddled shape on the ground, as if he was trying to equate this crumpled figure with the strict genius of a teacher she so often mentioned. "What in the world is he doing in this hole?"

"Maybe he was trying to shelter from the storm, sir," Thomas suggested. "Too badly hurt to make it home."

"Well, we can take him there now. It will be easier to assess his injuries." Raoul took Christine's place at Erik's side, crouching and sliding his arm under the older man's shoulders as he prepared to lift him. "Where did you say he lived, Christine? Somewhere along this street?"

"Yes, but he lives alone, has done for years; there will be no one to take care of him," she said quickly.

He looked surprised. "Are there no family, no friends we could summon?"

She shook her head. The Vicomte and his man exchanged a glance. "The hospital, sir?" Thomas asked.

"No!" Christine exclaimed before Raoul could even open his mouth to reply. "No," she repeated, lowering her voice. "I would rather leave him here."

"Then where?" Raoul enquired. "Christine, this man needs medical attention - "

"We'll have to take him home. I can't entrust him to a doctor; please don't ask me why."

It seemed for a moment that he was struggling with himself, unsure which statement to dispute first. In the end he picked the one that apparently bothered him the most. "ʻHome'? Christine, you can't mean... _your_ home? Your flat?"

"Where else do you suggest?" Christine tilted her chin, staring him down and daring him to argue. "Raoul, I am all he has. Well, nearly all. I owe him so much; I can't abandon him now."

"Perhaps, but this is hardly proper - "

"Oh, damn propriety! I don't care!" she shouted, and could have laughed at the expression of consternation on his face had the situation been different. "You sound just like your brother! We don't have time to stand here quarrelling about what is and isn't 'right'!"

"It's true, sir," said Thomas, earning himself a glare from his boss. Kneeling, he took Erik away from Raoul, hefting him into his arms and standing with apparently little effort. "If we leave him here much longer he'll go into shock from the cold, if he hasn't already. The young lady's home isn't too far away; the sooner we get him somewhere warm, the better."

Raoul swore. "Oh, very well, if we must. I won't forget this insubordination, Thomas."

"Of course not, sir," the big man replied, sounding remarkably unconcerned. He turned towards the entrance to the tunnel, Erik hanging like a broken marionette in his grasp. As he moved the Phantom's head shifted against Thomas's shoulder, knocking the battered fedora to one side; Christine lunged for it but it was too late: Raoul had seen the mask, the white porcelain stark in the lamplight. He stared, mouth open and working silently for a few seconds before he managed to stutter out,

"What the hell - "

"Not now, Raoul!" she hissed, and followed the coachman, leaving him standing there in the dark.

* * *

Voices... there were voices!

He tried to speak but nothing emerged beyond a cracked moan. His body was so unbearably heavy; it was all he could do to lift his head slightly as someone touched his shoulder. Instinct took over and he tried to move away but there was nowhere to go; he was trapped!

"...all right, Erik. It's... stine."

The words barely made sense but his battered brain caught the one that mattered more than anything. Could she really be here after all? Her name was little more than a breath on his lips; he lacked the energy to even speak. She may have asked him a question; he couldn't be sure. His response was garbled, nonsensical to even his own ears. What had he said? It didn't matter; his head hurt too much to even attempt to make sense of what was happening.

Christine's voice came again, but he was just too exhausted to take anything more in. Snatches of sound came and went; were there others present? He couldn't be sure, and found that he didn't really care. There were hands on him, lifting him, and he let them; he couldn't fight them, whoever they were. Strange sensations, of movement that sent his senses reeling all over again, and then there was warmth, blessed warmth, before the blackness descended upon him once more.

* * *

Half an hour later, Christine decided she had never been so grateful that her landlady was away; quite what Madame la Farge would have made of her visitors was anyone's guess.

Thomas's strength was really quite incredible; he carried Erik to the sleigh and afterwards up the three flights of stairs to her little flat, bearing the taller man as easily as he would a child. Thankfully the sleigh had a hood, ostensibly to protect its occupants from the snow but useful now to deflect prying eyes. Christine wrapped her teacher in the warm furs and cradled his frozen body to her, well aware that were he awake he would be mortified by such close contact; he always took great care to behave like a perfect gentleman around her, never even touching her if he could avoid it in case she found his attentions distasteful. She hadn't managed to make him understand that her feelings were quite the opposite, that if he wished to lay a hand upon her shoulder or kiss her on the cheek she really wouldn't mind; in fact, she thought, she might even welcome it. She glanced at Raoul, who sat opposite them trying to pretend he wasn't annoyed, and reflected that _he_ had kissed her more than once, and without even asking her opinion on the matter.

"I still think this is ridiculous," he said now, as they watched the coachman lay her teacher down on the bed. "At least let me send Thomas for a doctor. You can't care for him yourself."

"Why not? I looked after Papa alone," Christine told him, rather more sharply than she had intended. "The doctor could do little to help then."

"What if there are other injuries, worse than we can see? Christine," Raoul insisted, catching her by the arm and turning her to face him. She met his gaze, biting her lip. "I'm serious. You can't take this man's welfare entirely upon your own shoulders. How well do you know him?"

"Well enough."

He lifted a sceptical eyebrow. "Enough to know what lies behind that mask? It strikes me that someone who hides their face may be hiding a great deal more."

"Oh, Raoul, for goodness's sake!" She pulled away. Thomas was carefully removing Erik's cloak, unbuttoning his waistcoat and shirt, looking it seemed for wounds. Wondering precisely what this man's background was, for he seemed more than just a driver, Christine went to the linen cupboard in the hallway, retrieving more blankets, and a couple of old sheets that could be used for bandages. "This isn't a fairy story. Do you really think he would wear the mask if it wasn't necessary?"

Raoul shrugged. "I don't know. Perhaps you can tell me."

"I can't. I'm sorry," she added when he began to protest. "It's not my confidence to give."

"So you _do_ know."

Christine sighed. "Yes, I know. And it makes no difference." Turning her back on him, she knelt down beside the bed. There was a dark bruise on one side of Erik's stomach, as though he had been punched or kicked, but that wasn't what made her catch hold of his hand, tears starting in her eyes; it was the sight of his painfully thin torso, the ribs prominent as though he had never eaten a decent meal in his life, and criss-crossed with old white scars. He was always so beautifully dressed, so impeccably elegant; he was thin, yes, too thin for his height, but she had never expected the tailored suits to be covering such a pathetic, skeletal form. Thomas was still making his investigations, and rolling up the right trouser leg he discovered the source of the blood that had led her to her tutor's side: a long gash in the muscle of the calf, doubtless the cause of the pain Erik had been in when she tried to lift him. She unlaced his black leather boot, surprised to find the lining to be a brilliant red, and tugging down his stocking found more damage, mottled angry purple bruising surrounding his ankle and stretching down across his foot.

"Oh, you poor man," she found herself murmuring, recalling the half-buried prints in the snow beside the Opera. "How far did you try to walk on this?"

Thomas got up. "I'll fetch some of that snow from outside. If we pack the ankle with it, it should help with the swelling."

"Thank you," Christine called as he withdrew.

"Is... is there anything you need?" Raoul asked, watching her with a strange expression as she removed Erik's other boot, lining them neatly up at the end of the bed. She drew the blankets over him, tucking them in around his shoulders.

"There should be some arnica cream and iodine in the bathroom, if you wouldn't mind fetching them. And a bowl of water, please." She waited until he had left the room before brushing back the wayward locks of dark hair that had fallen over Erik's mask. Never had she seen him so dishevelled; the black and blue of the bruises that littered the good side of his face was even more livid now in the light from the window. "What happened to you, my maestro?" she whispered, but there was no reply and she hung her head for a moment, willing herself not to cry.

"I'm sorry." Raoul had returned, and offered her a handkerchief which she accepted gratefully, wiping at her eyes. "I spoke out of turn just now; it was unfair of me to pry."

"You only did what was natural. It is human to fear the unknown," Christine replied sadly.

"Even so, I was wrong." He put down the bowl and the ointments beside her and she glanced at him in surprise; he did not usually like to admit to being at fault. "It is your choice whether you share a confidence or not, and I know I would be grateful for your discretion where I in his place."

She rested a hand on his. "Thank you," she said again. "I appreciate your trust in me."

Raoul looked at their hands, then back at the still figure in the bed whose fingers she grasped, and sighed, shaking his head. "Tell me what I can do to help."

* * *

The warmth hadn't gone.

For some time Erik had been convinced he would never be warm again. Amongst the pain and the bone-deep ache that seemed to be coming from everywhere at once, he could feel his fingers and toes tingling as sensation returned to them. He was no longer in the alley, that much was evident; his head rested on something soft, easing the pounding inside a little. As he gradually came back to himself he became aware of people talking nearby, their voices coming and going in snatches of conversation he was still too tired to fully understand.

"... will he wake up?" That was a young woman, and the musical timbre was very familiar. He'd heard it only recently, but he couldn't force himself to think straight enough to place it.

She was answered by a man, one he did not recognise, though an instinctive resentment rose within him at the aristocratic tone. "I don't know. He seems to have stopped shivering... a good sign."

Gentle fingers brushed across his brow, the thumb stroking his temple and soothing his terrible headache a little. "It worries me. Perhaps... his head?"

"Again, I just don't know." There was a huff of frustration. "There is no obvious damage... concussion?"

"Possibly, sir," a deeper voice; another, older man responded.

"We have done all we can, Christine," said the first, and at least one of the pieces of this puzzle slid into place. Christine, of course it was Christine. She had been there in the tunnel. Who else could have found him?

"Yes," she agreed, and Erik last thought as he drifted away again was that she sounded so very sad. "I suppose it is up to him now..."

* * *

It was growing dark.

With a sigh Christine sat down on the edge of the bed, taking one of Erik's bandaged hands between her own. Raoul had reluctantly gone home a while ago, not wanting to leave her on her own but needing to return lest his brother send out a search party; Philippe never trusted him not to get into some sort of scrape or other. She was grateful to him for staying as long as he had, especially when he was obviously uncomfortable with the situation though he was doing his best not to show it. He took his leave with a promise to return in the morning, bringing with him a few things she might need for her patient's comfort, and she found herself smiling. While he could easily say the wrong thing, put his foot in it through a lack of understanding born of his upbringing, he had a soft heart and she knew he thought the world of her. If only she felt the same way about him, she thought ruefully; it might make things so much easier.

Erik hadn't moved since they'd brought him into the flat. She'd patched up his injuries with the assistance of Thomas, who seemed to know a great deal about treating wounds; when pressed Raoul explained that the coachman had been in the navy for a spell, assisting the surgeon, before he realised he far preferred dealing with the ailments of horses over human beings. Now the Phantom was a still presence in her bed; he was so tall they had had to lay him on the mattress at an angle, an ottoman pushed beneath his feet. They'd dressed him in an old nightshirt of her father's; it was a little too small but clean and warm. Maybe tomorrow the snow would have thawed and she would be able to fetch some of his own clothes from the Opera.

It was strange, almost sacrilegious, to see this normally majestic, mysterious man reduced to a broken figure beneath the blankets. Were it not for the mask she might have asked herself if it really was her teacher lying there. For a moment her fingers hovered over the porcelain; he would surely be more comfortable without it, but he had promised she would never have to see his face and she knew he would not thank her for removing the shield he wore against the world. Squeezing his hand in what she hoped was a comforting grasp she smoothed back his hair, gently resting the back of her fingers against the uncovered side of his brow, only to be disappointed when once again he did not stir.

She slowly got to her feet, stretching her arms and arching her back to relieve some of the pressure caused by sitting still for so long. The gaslights were starting to be lit in the street as she pulled the drapes across, shutting out the world beyond the flat; for now it was just the two of them, just as in the little house by the lake. She always loved that time they had together; it was the highlight of her week, and she had recently found herself wishing they might see each other more often. Christine drifted through to her kitchen, barely more than a cubbyhole across the hall, and began to look through the cupboards, wondering if she had anything in for supper. Though she wasn't really hungry she knew she would be no use to Erik if she didn't eat.

She had found a heel of cheese on the cold slab and was buttering some bread when she heard the movement of bedclothes, knowing immediately the soft sigh the counterpane made when it slid to the floor. Almost forgetting the plate she was still holding she hurried back to Erik's side just in time to see his eyes finally flutter open, their mismatched gaze wandering over her face with complete bewilderment. She retrieved the comforter and sat down on the mattress beside him, reaching for his hand once more, unable to keep the relief from her face; he was still too weak and confused to draw away.

"... Christine...?" he asked in a hoarse voice, and she nodded, smile widening.

"Yes. You're safe, don't worry."

"... where... where are...we?"

"My flat," Christine told him, and he looked startled. "It's all right," she said before he could object. "My landlady is away, and the rooms downstairs are empty at the moment. No one knows you are here."

He shook his head, and then winced, eyes squeezing shut. "It isn't right," he muttered. "Should... shouldn't be..."

"I couldn't get you down to the cellars. Would you have had me leave you to freeze in that tunnel?" she enquired, softening her tone when she saw his miserable expression. "Erik, it's fine, honestly. Would you like some water?"

He nodded gingerly, and she went to fetch some. When she returned she found that he had struggled onto his elbows, attempting to sit up; sliding an arm around his back she helped him, supporting the glass for him while he drank and trying not to feel saddened at the way his spine and shoulders stiffened when she touched him. It was impossible to miss the hiss of pain he gave when she laid him back down, and again she wondered about the sense of his still wearing the mask.

"Does your head hurt?" she asked. "Perhaps you fell, and hit it on the ground."

"The ache was already there." He sounded a little stronger now. "Forgive me; I suffer from such debilitations from time to time, as a result of... this." He waved a hand vaguely towards his face. "A concussion would certainly not help."

"Would it..." Christine hesitated. "Would it help if you removed - "

"It would, but I will not ask you to bear the sight of my face," Erik said, looking up at her. His eyes were terribly sad. "As I am sure I have explained, I am not... pleasant to look upon."

"I don't mind, really. I only wish you to be comfortable."

A slight smile touched the visible side of his mouth, but he shook his head, just a fraction. "It is very kind of you to say so, my dear, but you have done quite enough. For that I thank you; I would not presume upon your charity by asking more."

Christine clucked her tongue. "It is not charity, Erik." It was frustrating that he would never accept that she actually cared for him, no matter how many times she told him so. She knew it was not his fault, that the feeling of worthlessness had been instilled into him almost from birth, but just once she wished he would take her professions of affection seriously; they had known each other long enough now for it surely to be obvious that she felt more for him than just a pupil's respect for her teacher, but still he kept that distance, as though he might be afraid to let any deeper emotion show.

"Perhaps not." He glanced towards the dressing table, and the bread and butter that she had abandoned on top. "But I would not put you off your supper by making you look upon my ruined visage. I try to avoid it as much as possible myself."

"I'm sure that having something soft against it would be more beneficial for your head than the mask," she insisted, but he just sighed, too tired to argue any more. Christine's gaze roamed the room searching for inspiration, until it fell on the armchair and its cushions. An idea began to form, and she reached over to snag one of them, seating herself at the head of the bed beside Erik. His eyes had slid closed but they opened again in surprise when he felt her proximity; she was sitting far closer than he had ever knowingly permitted and it obviously startled him.

"Christine, what - ?" he began, but she shushed him, snuggling the cushion between her hip and the pillows. The natural place for it would have been her lap, but she knew he would never allow that much intimacy.

"Lay your head against it. Take off the mask; I won't be able to see, I promise." From this angle the right side of his face would be hidden from her, but he would be able to relax so much more. The tension at the corner of his eye, the way his lips pressed together so tightly, told her more than words could that he was still in some considerable discomfort. She lifted her arm, inviting him to move closer. "Come on; you'll feel better, I'm sure."

He looked doubtful, but slowly, very slowly, his hand crept up behind his head, loosening what must have been an almost invisible cord that held the mask in place. It was something of a miracle that it had not been damaged in the attack. Christine held her breath but she caught no more than a glimpse of something, of red and purplish skin beneath, before she quickly looked away. When she turned back Erik had rested his head awkwardly on the cushion, keeping as far away from her as possible; the mask was lying on the blankets, a curiously lifeless thing without his face to animate it.

"Erik, you'll get a crick in your neck like that," she chided gently. There was a long pause, and then he shuffled towards her, just slightly, curling his long limbs inwards so that he could lie there and still maintain some distance between them. His eyebrow drew downwards and she heard him grit his teeth as his injured ankle shifted, but he made no sound. Eventually his eyelids drifted closed again and a long sigh escaped him, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. Christine pulled the coverlet back up and making sure he was warm enough, settled it over them both.

* * *

Bliss... or it would be were it not for the thudding behind his eye. But was that infernal ache finally beginning to feel just a little lighter than it had been?

Erik wasn't sure. What he did know, though, was that he didn't ever want to move from this spot. Christine, his beautiful angel, had saved him. And what was more, she actually wanted him near to her, had even put her arm around him! It was more than he had ever dared to dream. He had no idea how she could sit there so happily, knowing that she was harbouring a monster; he had tried to tell her more than once that he was not like other men, but she had brushed his protestations aside, insisting that he must be exaggerating, that he needed to think better of himself. Of course, she had not seen him for what he really was; her attempts to help him, her suggestion that he bare his dreadful face to her, had been made in naiveté for she had no idea what she asked, but they were well-meant, proof of her wonderfully kind heart.

It was that same kindness that drove her to cradle his terrible head, fingers carding lightly through his hair. She was the sort of girl who would doubtless bring home a wounded bird or animal, determined to nurse it back to health. Was that how she saw him, another injured creature to be cared for until it was once more able to face the world alone? To his surprise, Erik felt his heart clench at the thought of returning to his cellars, to the darkness and the solitude. A few hours ago, he could never have imagined anyone would ever take him into their home like this, would comfort him and tend him. Now, as he lay at Christine's side, listening to her breathing and the occasional rustle of paper as she turned a page of her book, he found that he could quite happily stay there forever.

He had almost drifted off, her touch alone enough to ease his head, when he felt the brush of her lips on his brow, and the warmth of her breath as she whispered, "Sleep well, my maestro."

* * *

The fire had burned down and the first of the dawn light was filtering through the curtains when Christine woke, wondering why she had slept so awkwardly.

A quick glance to her left reminded her, even if the weight pressing against her hip and the warmth of another body beside her own had not: there in her bed lay the infamous Opera Ghost, her teacher, the right side of his face still hidden as his arm wrapped around the cushion, hugging it to him. His bruises had developed overnight into a livid patchwork across his jaw and visible cheekbone but he seemed to be sleeping peacefully, making an almost purring sound as he breathed. Smiling fondly, she carefully slid off the mattress and laid him back down, his face still turned away. He stirred slightly, mumbling something she could not make out, but didn't wake. While she knew that whatever lay behind the mask would not change her feelings about him, feelings that she knew now had become much stronger of late, she would not force him to show her.

Checking the time she discovered that it was barely seven o'clock. She poked the fire back into life, adding some extra coal; the usual sounds of the city beginning a new day were starting to emerge from the street. For a moment she couldn't help wishing they were back in Erik's house by the lake, in that magical place away from the mundane intrusions of the world. She would have to send a message to the Opera, to explain her absence, and Madame la Farge would doubtless be returning in a day or two. Lamenting why life had to be so complicated, she lit the kitchen stove and fetching a change of clothes took herself off to the bathroom to clean herself up; she was still wearing the crumpled dress from yesterday, the skirt stained with Erik's blood. It would be difficult to find an excuse for that, were anyone to see it.

She could hear him moving about as she changed, and to give him some privacy she diverted to the kitchen to brew some tea. It took a while for the kettle to boil; by the time she returned to the bedroom he was sitting up, the mask replaced, and had turned back the bedclothes to examine his bandaged foot. He glanced up as she entered the room, hair fanning over his forehead and his visible cheek turning quite pink, making him look like a little boy caught with his hand in the biscuit jar. She tried to hide her smile at the sight; though he was obviously embarrassed it was nice to witness him being human for a change.

"That's going to be painful to walk on for a while," Christine observed.

"Yes." He quickly twitched the blankets back into place, the flush on his face deepening. "I will admit to not relishing the thought of tackling five flights of stairs when I return home."

Sitting at the end of the bed, she passed him a teacup. He seemed far more alert this morning and so she asked, "What happened, Erik?"

"I suppose if I told you I tripped and fell down those same stairs you would not believe me?"

"Not when I discovered you at the top. And not when I know you have the grace and balance of a cat. You've spent years up in the flies at the Opera; you don't just fall," she reminded him. "Who attacked you?"

With a sigh he leaned back against the pillows, looking at the fireplace. "Some roughs who thought they had found an easy mark. They were soon disabused of the notion; I dispatched two of them but the third hung back and I was not aware of him until it was too late. He took the opportunity to bring me down; he caught my leg with his knife and it must have twisted under me when I fell. Unfortunately for him my trip out of doors was not planned and I was carrying little of value; he took out his frustration upon my person. I did my best to fight back, but... you see the results."

Christine frowned. "But how he take you unawares? Was he hiding?"

"Because of this." Erik gestured towards his mask. He hung his head, staring down at his tea. "I am afraid that the sight in this eye has begun to deteriorate of late. It was never as sharp as the other but it had served me well enough. I..." He drew in a long breath. "I can make out little more than shadows on that side now. I simply did not see him."

"Oh, Erik." She put down her cup, shifting towards him. He waved a hand to stop her, unable to meet her gaze, shoulders hunched in shame.

"Please, Christine, no pity. It was not entirely unexpected; the... damaged side of my head has never worked quite as it should."

"It is not pity I am offering, but sympathy," she told him, catching hold of those long fingers. He tried half-heartedly to pull away but she refused to let him. "Is there anything that can be done to help?"

Erik sighed, staring at their joined hands. "Perhaps. But I am unwilling to submit myself to the inevitable curiosity such enquiries would attract. I have no wish to become a laboratory specimen, prodded and poked and put on display."

"No, of course not. Forgive me; I did not think."

He smiled, just a little. "You were not to know. Do not worry yourself over me; I have learned to manage and will do so again. I will not be caught out like this a second time."

"I believe you." She squeezed his fingers, and he finally raised his head to look at her. His eyes, the blind one a pale, pale blue, the other dark brown, were soft; after a momentary hesitation he brushed his thumb lightly across her knuckles. Christine tried not to show her surprise; it was the first touch he had ever initiated between them that was not necessary or perfunctory and she could feel the roughness of calluses that had inevitably built up from so many years spent playing music. Despite the warmth from the fire his skin was still cool; perhaps that was what sent the trace of a shiver down her spine.

The sudden knock at the front door made her jump and ruined the moment. Erik drew away, but she thought she might have seen disappointment flit across his visible features before it was replaced with the inscrutable expression he habitually wore, a metaphorical mask to match the real one. Christine stood, inwardly cursing the caller.

"That will be Raoul," she said, and could see his jaw clenching, grip tightening on the handle of his teacup. "I must go and let him in."

"Does..." She paused on the threshold, glancing back towards him. The mismatched gaze had hardened and she sighed inwardly. "Does the Vicomte make a habit of arriving at such an early hour?"

"He has probably come to enquire after your welfare." Some wicked little part of her almost enjoyed the shocked look that touched his bruised face. "Raoul helped me bring you here yesterday; I could not have managed alone. Please be civil to him," she begged, adding as she headed for the stairs, "His actions did save your life."

* * *

Saved his life? Preposterous! It couldn't be true... could it?

Erik couldn't think of a single reason why the Vicomte de Chagny would be so charitably disposed towards him. Why would he, the brother of the Opera Populaire's most exalted patron, wish to help the spectre that haunted the theatre, a man who lived in little more than a hole in the ground and spent his days and nights acting as a general thorn in the sides of both performers and management? Unless, of course, Christine had neglected to mention the fact that her voice teacher was also the Phantom. Even though his interventions caused mischief rather than harm and were usually for the good of the Opera, he doubted de Chagny would continue to look favourably upon him for long once he discovered the truth. The Vicomte would probably persuade Christine to cease their lessons and engage a tutor of his own choosing, someone he could trust not to take too great an interest in their pupil.

An interest? Was that how he was now describing this... attraction to his angel? Was it interest that drew him to her, that made him want to lie at her side like a dog and never move? He had never felt this way about another person before and did not understand what it meant. The previous evening was a somewhat hazy memory, but Erik knew that he would dearly like to repeat it, to have her hold him and soothe his pain forever. For a brief, fleeting moment he had dared to dream it might be possible, a dream that was brought back down to earth with a bump with the sudden presence of de Chagny. Why on earth would she even glance at a rotting carcass like himself with that handsome boy to give her everything she might possibly desire?

For a moment he wondered whether he might just be able to get up and flee, as he had done so often before, to save himself the inevitable misery. An attempt to stand reminded him that his ankle would not hold his weight and he collapsed back onto the mattress, swearing beneath his breath. In any event, he reasoned as he glanced around Christine's little apartment, with the window the only escape route that would avoid this unwelcome visitor, exactly where could he hope to go?

Leg throbbing, and an ache niggling once again behind his bad eye, Erik had little choice but to settle himself back into Christine's bed. He reached for the blanket that lay across the armchair and pulled it around his shoulders in an attempt to hide the ill-fitting nightshirt he was wearing and straightened his spine, determined to face the boy as an equal instead of the infirm derelict he must have seemed the day before. He had his dignity, if nothing else.

* * *

"How is he this morning?" Raoul asked, aiming a kiss towards her cheek as Christine opened the door.

"Better," she replied. "He's awake and alert. I was just going to try and get some breakfast into him; he doesn't eat enough."

"So I saw." His expression darkened for a moment before his smile returned and he lifted the carpet bag he was carrying. "Since you wouldn't tell me his address, I brought a few things from home that ought to tide him over for a day or two."

She blinked in surprise. "That's very good of you, Raoul. I thought you meant you would buy some things and I would reimburse you - "

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," he said dismissively. "As if I would ask you for money! No, these are Philippe's; he won't miss them. And if he does, I'll just tell him he must have been the victim of a very specific burglar." He winked, and Christine couldn't help laughing.

"You are dreadful! But I suppose he does deserve it."

"Of course he does." He followed her up the stairs. "Anyway, he can afford to lose a few clothes; he's got wardrobes stuffed with things he's never even worn. He's not quite as unnaturally tall as your teacher, but these should do in a pinch."

"Thank you. I'm very grateful, and I'm sure Erik will be, too. Have you eaten?" she asked, and saw him grimace.

"No. I left early to avoid another lecture across the breakfast table. I would much rather look at your face first thing in the morning than my brother's."

"Flatterer," Christine said lightly, and he grinned. "I've not been shopping so there's little more than toast, but you're very welcome to share it."

Her patient was obviously waiting for them when they entered the bedroom. He sat up straight, wrapped in her plaid afghan and evidently trying to draw about him some of his battered confidence. Unfortunately his appearance was rather at odds with the dignified aspect he was trying to convey: the usually good side of his face, currently blotched purple and black and swollen out of shape, was in stark contrast to the white of his mask, its brow sculpted in a perpetual frown. He had smoothed his hair back from his forehead in an attempt to restore some of his normal elegance, a futile hope given his surroundings and current state of dress; despite all this, however, he still managed to radiate an air of disapproval at the sight of the visitor, his gaze pinning Raoul much in the same way Christine imagined a cat might regard a mouse.

Raoul faltered slightly; the man facing him now was very different to the helpless figure of the day before, but to his credit he was not stymied for long and plastered on a cheerful smile. "Good morning, Monsieur... Erik, is it not? I am glad to see you much improved."

The Phantom politely inclined his head. "Monsieur le Vicomte. It is... pleasant to be warm and conscious once more."

"Yes, I imagine it would be. We were rather concerned for you yesterday, weren't we, Christine?"

"I apologise if my injuries upset your equilibrium, Monsieur," Erik said before she could agree, a bitter edge to his mellifluous voice. He shifted uncomfortably, one hand gripping the blanket. "It was not my intention to bother anyone with them."

Raoul appeared not to notice the reproof, for which Christine was grateful; she knew that after years spent hiding away from people her teacher often misunderstood casual words and intentions, finding slight and mockery where there was none. "It was no bother, I assure you," he replied. "My man and I were only too happy to help. There but for the grace of God, and all that." She shot him a reproving glance; though he had later come round to the urgency of the situation he had certainly not been entirely happy at the time. He just raised his eyebrows at her. "It was lucky Christine found you when she did."

"Then it would appear my thanks are due to you both."

"Raoul has brought you something," Christine announced, and Erik jumped, visibly startled, when the Vicomte deposited the carpet bag on the bed.

"It's just a few bits and pieces a man might need away from home," Raoul told him. "I happened to notice that Christine's father was of a somewhat smaller stature than yourself and I know how dashed uncomfortable ill-fitting clothes can be."

Erik looked at the bag for several long moments as though he had no idea what to do with it. Eventually, aware of their eyes upon him, he pulled it towards him and opened the clasp; as they watched he withdrew two expensive linen nightshirts and a beautiful Chinese silk robe. He stared down at them, fingers running appreciatively over the fabric of the dressing gown; Christine knew how much he loved fine things. "I..." He swallowed, blinking furiously. "I don't know what to say." Raising his gaze to his benefactor he asked rather sharply, "You do not know me; we have never met. Why would you do this for a stranger, monsieur?"

Raoul shrugged. "After yesterday we are not entirely strangers. And your need is far greater than my brother's, sir."

Their eyes met and Erik nodded, the faintest trace of a smile on his swollen lips. "I suppose that is true."

"There are stockings and a pair of slippers as well; I hope they will fit. It's rather cold at the moment."

"Yes, I believe I had noticed," the older man remarked, and Raoul flushed, realising his own lack of tact. There was no malice in Erik's tone, however. "Thank you, monsieur. You appear to have thought of everything."

Christine decided it was safe to leave them and went into the kitchen, smiling to herself and listening to them talk as she set the kettle on to boil once more and sliced the bread. Never had she imagined their first meeting to be as calm as this! Prickly and suspicious whenever she mentioned one to the other she had always expected to find them prowling around her like two tomcats fighting over territory, yet here they were actually having a civilised conversation. She knew that Erik did not like to be beholden to others, but if it made life less fraught she would do her best to persuade him otherwise just this once.

"...Christine is always speaking of her lessons with you," Raoul was saying now. "I had no idea she was hiding such a voice; she sings like an angel, knocks La Carlotta into a cocked hat. You must be very proud of her."

"I am indeed. She has absorbed and built upon everything I have taught her," Erik replied, and Christine felt herself blush at the warmth in his voice. "Perfection is not easily reached but she will astonish the world."

"I think we may be getting ahead of ourselves," she remarked, re-entering the room bearing a tray, the plates and cups clattering together as she deposited it on the hearthrug. "I have yet to be cast in a leading role."

He glowered, and then winced as the effort pulled on his battered features. "The managers are ignorant fools to hide you away in the chorus. They cannot see true talent when it is staring them in the face."

"At least I have progressed from the corps de ballet," Christine pointed out, settling herself next to the tray and reaching for the toasting fork. "Anyway, I'm sure Carlotta has more than a little influence over casting; she is the prima donna, after all."

"And very fond of getting her own way, if Philippe is to be believed. Do you sing yourself, monsieur?" Raoul asked.

Erik looked uncomfortable. "When I was younger I sang... occasionally," he said with reluctance. "Nowadays I have little reason to do so; Christine's tuition takes up a great deal of my time."

"Don't let him put you off with false modesty," Christine told Raoul. "Erik has a quite incredible voice, if only he would allow people to hear it."

The expression on the visible side of the Phantom's face was a curious mixture of embarrassment and annoyance. "I hardly think anyone will be asking me to grace their stage any time soon, my dear."

"Then they are wrong," she said firmly, to his evident surprise. "You know that you would have Signor Piangi running back to Milan with just a few notes."

"Really?" The Vicomte raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps I should ask my brother to invite you both to sing at his next supper party; we might just discover Paris's next musical sensation."

Christine glanced at Erik, who was now looking horrified at the suggestion. "From what you've told me about Philippe's soirees, I doubt if either of us would ever be ready for that," she replied lightly, and thankfully Raoul laughed.

* * *

It was the most peculiar feeling, Erik decided, sitting there with the two of them, included in their conversation as though he was just another friend, someone completely normal.

He didn't think he had ever experienced anything like it, this acceptance; even the Vicomte, wary of him to begin with and with good reason, had been almost solicitous, thinking of his comfort and bringing him his own brother's clothes, no less! He had been momentarily overcome by the gesture, his first thought to question the reason for such largesse, but the boy was unruffled, almost, but not quite, making it seem as though it was his business to help masked strangers every day.

He knew it was born of Christine's influence; if not for her they would have found no common ground, would inevitably be at daggers drawn instead of sharing tea and toast in this cosy, simple manner. It was true that he did not like the Vicomte sniffing around her; he was a distraction she could ill afford at this point in her career when her full attention should be on her music. However, one could not watch them together, see the way they were so comfortable and unreserved in each other's company, and deny that they had a bond of friendship that might not easily be broken. Erik reflected that if he were being completely honest with himself he would have done his best to chase off any potential suitors, whoever they were; he did not want to share Christine with anyone. But he could not deny that he was now in the boy's debt; was it possible to look harshly upon someone who had been of such assistance in a time of need?

It was perplexing; he had never found himself in such a situation before. All his life others had pushed him away, screamed at the very sight of him, and yet here were two young people, some might say barely more than children, who had not only rescued and cared for him but were not bothered by his presence in the slightest. On the contrary, Christine seemed to welcome it, and Raoul, though he may have had his own unexpressed concerns as any sensible lad would, seemed content to follow her lead.

Just thinking about it was making his head spin. Christine was telling a story, something involving a contentious change in the blocking for _Hannibal_ , the latest travesty inflicted upon the Populaire by Hector Chalumeau, which had raised Carlotta's ire, but he really didn't have the energy to contribute. Instead he lay back against the pillows, happy just to listen to her voice, and allowed his eyes to drift closed.

* * *

"... and she was absolutely furious, even Signor Piangi couldn't calm her down. She went straight for Monsieur Reyer and it was like a rhinoceros charging down a rabbit!" Christine exclaimed, giggling now at the memory. "He hid behind Marius and Alphonse but she pushed the pair of them out of the way. We were all trying desperately not to laugh; you should have seen it, Erik. Erik..?" There was no response, and she sighed, reflecting that maybe he was bored by her chatter. There was every chance he had seen it for himself; he always made a point of watching rehearsals after all.

Raoul softly cleared his throat and pointed towards the bed. "I think perhaps that is my cue to leave."

Expecting the worst she hurriedly turned, only to discover that the Phantom was asleep, his head nodding to one side. "Oh, dear. We must have worn him out with all our gossip."

"The man needs his rest." Raoul climbed to his feet. "I must be gone, anyway; the snow has started to thaw and I should have been at the Opera half an hour since. Philippe has nominated me to deputise for him with Andre and Firmin."

"Oh, my goodness, I had completely forgotten the time!" Her hand flew to her mouth in mortification. "I have a rehearsal at ten o'clock! I must - "

He caught her by the shoulders, pressing a finger to her lips to stop her talking. "Christine, don't worry. I'll tell them you are sick and remaining in bed under doctor's orders."

Christine shook her head. "You can't; Erik won't be well enough to be left alone for a few days and they will become suspicious if I am away too long."

"Then I shall say you have been told to have complete rest and not return for a week." He smiled. "They won't dare question the patron's brother."

"Perhaps not, but it will not look good for me." She frowned, thinking quickly. While he collected his hat and coat she scribbled a note which she pressed into his hand. "This is for Madame Giry; she is a friend of Erik's and should know what has happened or she will worry. Would you be able to - ?"

Raoul offered her a jaunty salute. "Consider it delivered. But make sure you take care yourself at the same time, Lotte," he added more seriously, slipping a finger beneath her chin and tilting it so he could look her in the eye. "You're looking tired and I have a feeling your teacher would not approve of you running yourself ragged for his sake."

"Do you really think so?" she asked, surprised by the remark. He kissed her on the end of her nose, and his smile became a little sad.

"I know so. I've seen the way he looks at you, and you at him," he said simply. Before she could respond he had turned towards the hall, adding over his shoulder as he left, "Let me know when he's able to travel and I'll send the carriage to take him home."

"I... thank you, Raoul," Christine called though it sounded inadequate; he waved a hand in reply and disappeared down the landing, the door banging shut behind him.

She stared at it for a while, as if it might somehow articulate the conflicting emotions that were welling up within her chest. There was a strange sense of loss, but inexplicably one of hope at the same time. Turning back to the bed she straightened the afghan where it was slipping from Erik's shoulders and removed from his lap the plate of now cold toast that he had valiantly tried to eat at her insistence. Raoul had moved the armchair but she pulled it back to his side and sat down, reaching for his hand and enfolding it within her own; he mumbled something, eyes flickering, but he didn't pull away and for that she was glad.

It didn't matter that he was asleep. They had plenty of time. He needed to get well, and she would make sure that he did.

After all, they had a lot to talk about.


End file.
